It has been said on more than one occasion that the Whitakers never miss an opportunity to party. While that may or may not be true, I firmly believe this tendency (again, only if it’s true) comes from our Mother’s passion for family reunions. Oh, how she loved getting the family together for her treasured family reunions. This became particularly important as we children grew older, began careers and started raising families of our own. Mother cherished getting her family together and she would work tirelessly for months in advance to make these gatherings special, even when family funds perhaps weren’t at their most flush. One of the things she liked the most was incorporating an element of surprise into the itinerary whenever possible. There was the horseback-riding trip up the mountain in Arizona, a dinner boat cruise in Lake Geneva (how many types of Evergreen trees? Anyone?), a wonderful surprise birthday party for Dad in West Virginia, The authentic hay ride to dinner in Steamboat Springs with all of us snuggled under blankets and Michelle serenading us (endlessly, I might add) with Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton’s “Islands in the Stream” among many, many other great events at numerous fantastic gatherings. Regardless of the amount of work that went into each reunion, Mother wore a constant smile on her face throughout the entire time the family was together. So, it was a wonderful moment when, while cleaning out some old journals, I stumbled upon this letter below from Mom and Dad dated August 3, 1993 - twenty years ago today.

Who can forget the wonderful reunion of 1993? Janie and Charlie co-hosted this splendid event in Door County to celebrate Mom and Dad’s 50th wedding anniversary and, as noted in the letter, it was a smashing success. Janie and Charlie attended to absolutely every tiny detail in all of their planning, of course, but my money says the reason the reunion was such a success is simply that we were all together. What strikes me today is how important these reunions continue to be to all of us, even though Mom and Dad are no longer with us. In fact, there are times when we find ourselves tripping over each other – fighting to host the next get-together or making excuses as to why we should get together – a golf outing, a child’s play, etc. ... and before you know it, a standard weekend turns into 4 or 6 or family members drinking and laughing for days. Even more interesting, when we get together now, typically at least part of the time is spent talking about previous family reunions! It is comical and it is wonderful at the same time. And, the most wonderful thing about it – is how it would surely make Mom smile.

Having a grand time at the 1993 Door County 50th Anniversary Family Reunion

My son left for his senior year in college Tuesday. While it has only been within the last hour that I’ve finally been able to get my breathing regulated, the pit at the base of my throat remains the size of a small lemon. The magnetic pull I felt as his little red car sped out of the driveway just after dawn is indescribable. My boy. How could this be his senior year already? And, of course, while my husband and I have not allowed ourselves to speak of this out loud, we both recognize that what "senior year" essentially means is that he will never truly live at home again. Ouch, That pull again. My boy. Oh, how I love that adorable little pain in the ass of a boy. When I try to articulate it, there are no words. And when I try to imagine that my parents had that same emotion multiplied by TEN children, I find it simply incomprehensible. Of course, there were good days and bad days, but, trust me, love us they did. I’ve been thinking about this a great deal this week as well because Tuesday also marked the day my Father would have turned 91 years old. I don’t want to create a false picture here nor give the impression that Dad resembled anything even remotely close to Fred MacMurray in “My Three Sons” or Robert Young in “Father Knows Best”. Oh no – not by a long shot. I remember very well the strict, often without merit, disciplinarian that he was. Like the time the five youngest Whitaker children were punished – and by “punished” I mean whipped with the belt one after the other for hours on end until one of us “confessed” – for allegedly eating the ears off of the magnificent chocolate Easter Bunny mother purchased that year. Learning the next morning, unfortunately, that an older sibling (who shall remain nameless) had snagged the ears following a night of carousing with his college friends all home for Easter Break. I recall no apologies to the younger five – even after the older brother’s admission – but I do remember that belt. And there was Daddy’s nose-to-nose encounter with his fists clenched around the shirt collar of a boyfriend of Kathy’s threatening him within an inch of his life for providing a fake ID to an underage sibling (who shall also remain nameless). Although, interestingly, just days after this encounter it was our Dad sitting next to that same boy in court when he learned he didn’t have a father of his own to offer moral support. The stories are as numerous as they are legendary and the dichotomy between Dad’s heavy hand and tender heart has always been a topic of great discussion within our family. Remembering, of course, that I am the youngest and most spoiled, I know my upbringing was often easier than those of the older children. (No, I never had to walk to school barefoot, backwards, in the snow, uphill – both ways!) Regardless of what side one falls on the heavy hand/tender heart debate on any given day, all one has to do is read the letter below that brother Joe, child number 2, was kind enough to share to understand the deep love that Dad carried for his children. Written in 1967 when Joe was apparently worried about receiving his class standing from the Navy, Dad’s note is full of kindness, wisdom and…well, love. Enjoy this special letter and Happy Belated Dad!

The pain was searing….burning….as tears streamed down my face – and I remember seeing my entire life flash before my eyes as my lids clenched tightly and I fought to catch my breath. Fortunately, at age 7, there wasn’t much “life” that required flashing before the SCREAMING began and mom rushed in to save me....... Whenever people learn I am the youngest of 10 children, they typically ask same question over and over again ....."Oh, were you spoiled?" While I can think of 100 other more pertinent questions I might ask, I'll go on record here for all the inquiring minds out there. The answer to that age-old question is "Duh, of course!" Just look at how adorable I was!

1968 Brother Joe's Wedding Weekend

And let me tell you it wasn't easy being adorable either what with all of the abuse I suffered at the hands of my brothers. Oh, they may have their stories and, if they want to share them, they can get their own blog. For now, you'll hear mine. Now, I don’t want to say that Charlie, David and I didn’t have any friends – and I certainly don’t want to create a spoiler for a future blog post that may or may not feature Charlie getting his networking advice from Nana McCann, but it is an indisputable fact that the three of us spent an inordinate amount of time together growing up. If asked, the two of them might say this is because they were saddled with me....but, again, they can create their own blog if they so choose. Charlie was the “smart” one, (this, too, may be refuted in later posts). David was the shy but cool one and I was just the pain-in-the-butt little sister. Somehow, however, at least to my way of thinking we always made our own fun. In fact, I have few memories of any other friends in the mix when I think about our youthful times together – yet I have countless memories of the three of us and our escapades. So there we were on a rather boring day in Bradford, Pennsylvania, when the Smart One suggested we conduct a science experiment. Eager to please, I happily volunteered to be the “subject” of said experiment. Simply put, Charlie wanted to test the hypothesis that pepper blown up you nose would make a person sneeze. With Charlie as the “pepper-blower”, I assumed David was the official data recorder for our sophisticated experiment but as I look back, he was nothing more than a glorified lookout man. Charlie sat across from me – the only thing between us a dinner plate loaded with pepper from the pantry –and he let out a hearty puff. Before I get into what happens next, in Charlie’s defense, I do need to say he did ask “are you ready?” on more than one occasion. What he did NOT ask was “are your eyes closed????” Not one morsel of pepper ended up in my nose. I gasped. It stung. David looked like a nervous bird….his mouth agape, his neck twitching back and forth - first looking at me then back toward the entryway to the kitchen to make sure no one came in to see our little medical emergency unfolding. It burned. I don’t believe I was breathing. Charlie wanted to laugh but he knew this was bad. Very bad. Tears were coming from somewhere but my eyes were definitely not open. DAVID: “Oh my God.” CHARLIE: “Susie, are you ok?” SUSAN: Unintelligible squeak CHARLIE: “Susie, are you ok?” SUSAN: Gasp DAVID: “Oh my God.” CHARLIE: “Susie, are you ok?” DAVID: “Oh my God.” CHARLIE: “Susie, say something. You’re ok, right?” SUSAN: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! MOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!” DAVID AND CHARLIE: “Oh my God.” Many cold compresses to the eyes later and some tender loving care from Mom and I was fine. The boys, however, got into some deep trouble as I recall - the Smart One bearing the brunt of the punishment this time. As painful as it was, as I look back, it isn’t the pain or the trouble the young scientists got into that stays with me – it’s the event itself. The moment. You need to know I have a hard time placing what I ate for breakfast this morning but I can so accurately picture the breakfast room off of the kitchen with its dark blue tile floors and our side door with the horizontal split in the middle so that just the top half of the door opened and let in a nice breeze and through which we little ones were rarely allowed to pass because of the steep stairs going down the outside of the house.And I distinctly remember the deer-in-the-headlights-open-mouth stares of both David and Charlie when they realized that the swirls of pepper were headed directly into my eyes from the plate - and there was absolutely nothing that either of them could do. As foolish as we probably were – and, of course, we did foolish better than most – I simply remember being in the moment – at that moment. Was I spoiled? You bet I was!

When I was a freshman in college in 1980, Dad sent me a post card from a business trip he was on in China. The content of this card was very brief: “Susie, this is the place for you. If only you could speak Mandarin, you could make a fortune here!” At the tender age of 18, I was dumbfounded. Well, if I am completely honest, I actually thought my father had fallen and hit his head or worse. Really? Me? China? Are you insane? What would a young American marketing student EVER gain by looking at opportunities in China of all places? Oh, if we only knew then what we know now. But, that’s just the thing – Daddy did. Dad had other great ideas for his children as well. Bill, Joe and Mike tell stories of how he took his three oldest sons out for kicking practice back in the 1950s. Apparently, according to Dad’s careful research, kickers in pro football make a lot of money – yet they don’t risk as much injury as other players on the field. So off to the football field the foursome would go on random Sunday afternoons and kick and kick and kick to see if we had a star in the making. And, speaking of foursomes, oh how Dad wished he’d had a pro-golfer in the family. The only slight flaw with that plan was that – despite his long career in the golf industry and his passion for the game – he was quite possibly the worst golf coach that ever lived. “Mmmmm Rotten” was his most often heard response when many a shot went awry. Or, brother David’s favorite, “You gotta hit it!” But, he absolutely loved playing the game anytime anywhere with his wife and his children. He was certain daughter Kathy was going to go straight to the LPGA, that is until she discovered boys. How delighted he was when she found her passion and career in the golf industry (and how delighted he would be today with her continued success). Throughout his career, Dad worked with golf greats like Lee Trevino and others and he always made sure these noted men and women of talent met his kids. What I didn’t understand until much later in life was that this was Daddy’s way of showing everyone he worked with – no matter who they were or what their title – how proud he was of his family. If Lee Trevino was in a golf tournament nearby he’d pack up the oldest boys to go meet him. “Lee, these are my boys,” he’d say, as if Lee Trevino was the lucky one fortunate enough to meet Bill Whitaker’s kids and not the other way around. Once, when brother David and I were in high school, Dad had very senior businessmen and government dignitaries in the U.S. from Taiwan, and much to my mother’s disappointment, instead of taking them out to a restaurant, he insisted they come to our home for a family dinner. I was doing the “forced conversation thing” over appetizers, which I am sure I loathed at the time, when David came home from wrestling practice. Once Dad introduced David and said the word “wrestling”, our Taiwanese guests were enthralled, as they assumed David (who wrestled at a beefy 126 pounds that year) was some kind of Suma wrestler in training. Dad loved it and made David the center of attention for the entire evening. “Tell them more!” he said repeatedly throughout the night, as he beamed with pride. I am sure I was furious at the time – but looking back, Dad was just so happy to show off his kid - and I am sure there are numerous additional examples of the same type of misdiagnosed behavior. What else do we know now that we didn’t know then? Well, we didn’t end up with any Whitakers in the NFL or playing on the pro golf tour and, sadly, I can’t speak a word of Mandarin Chinese. But I do know that I was blessed with a wonderful father who, while often quite strict and demanding, loved me, and all of his children, very much. And, that makes me a very lucky girl. Happy Father’s Day, Bill Whitaker.

I guess it is only fitting that we should start the first blog post on Mother’s day. After all, Mother is the person who got this whole thing started...well, then again, she got all things started, didn't she? While I know I covered myself with the disclaimer on the home page indicating that all fromthebottomup.net writings are solely and exclusively my opinions, I doubt I’d get much argument stating that Jane Frances McCann Whitaker was one of the greatest mothers of all time. Certainly the most beautiful. Certainly the most generous. And, when I speak of generosity, I speak not of monetary gifts, but of gifts from the heart, gifts of knowledge and gifts of humor. Every day – and I do mean every day – I find myself mimicking something she said or did or, better yet, trying to model myself after the way she did one thing or another. The older I get, the more I aspire to be the woman she was. Another one of mother’s most wonderful gifts that we uncovered unfortunately after her death were a stack of letters that she had written to former family caretaker, nanny and friend in Harleysville, Pennsylvania, Mrs. Derstine, and her daughter, Joy. These letters were written at least once a year to update Mrs. Derstine on the status of each of the children, for whom she had so lovingly cared, and, as an added benefit to us, the letters also provided an amazing glimpse into mother’s mindset as to how and what she was thinking about each of us at various stages throughout our lives. The letters were very insightful, often surprising and always heartfelt. Many brought tears to our eyes – some more than others – as we learned the pain our struggles caused her. But, in each letter, with every word, her love was was ever-present. It was one letter in particular, written on October 1, 1973, that made me realize I needed to somehow catalogue her amazing feats and our life together as a family. In this letter, Mom talked of her desire to write a book about the family she so loved. Yet, it was the constant care and nurturing of this family that kept the book from ever being written. My enthusiastic yet humble hope is that through a collection of memories, captured in blog posts, and perhaps expanded theories and conversations about the letters mother wrote throughout the years, a book or at least some type of compendium might take shape. It is the least I feel I can do for a mother who did so much for us. Stay tuned for future posts in the weeks ahead. In the interim, Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. As always, we are thinking of you.

Author

Susan Whitaker Mikulay is proud to be the youngest (some siblings might say also the most spoiled ) child in a family of ten children. These postings are a compilation of memories and musings from her viewpoint only...in other words - from the bottom up.